


The Lost Keeps

by speakwolf



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hera can be good, I just really like the Stoll brothers okay, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakwolf/pseuds/speakwolf
Summary: I've rewritten this story and renamed it. It can be found listed under 'The Rising Sky'. Thank you to all who liked it.





	1. Battle At Camp

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is just the beginning of my story. I plan to finish it. Some feedback would be great so I can see how to improve my work. This is my first story on here so please feel welcome to critique it!  
> Thanks!

 

Camp Half-Blood was unusually quiet. For a summer, occasionally winter, camp full of over 300 demigods, satyrs, nature spirits, and other weird godly creations, quiet was no normality. It was in the middle of December, in the wee hours of the morning, before any sane demigod would be awake, but it was quiet. Granted, there were only about 100 to 200 demigods during the winter, but it's never quiet. Under normal circumstances, the forest should be a cacophony of monsters noises, nymph noises, satyrs noises and more sounds. Even the winds that occasionally showed up in December were silent. Snow blanketed the ground of the forest and every available outside surface in the camp. The gods must have wanted to give the campers a snowy December, as that's exactly what they got. It didn't snow, per say, since if it did the gods on Olympus would get very rude letters from their children demanding no participation of any kind. Campers just woke up one day and the camp was covered in thick snow. Snow almost an inch thick draped over the surface of the camp as if sealing in a coffin of moody, spoiled half-mortal children.

Just past midnight, noise at the base of half-blood hill differed greatly to the otherwise quiet camp. Two demigods struggled to survive an onslaught of brutal attacks by monsters out for blood. At the base of the hill, just outside of the property line, a severely damaged banana colored 1979 Chevy Nova lay sideways, its windows smashed in thousands of pieces scattered across the deserted road that bordered farmhouses and trees. The passengers were long since gone, but a puddle sized pool of human blood soaked the backseat. The steering wheel had been ripped out, the remains of it tossed to the side of the car. Blood collected on the dashboard, small droplets settling on the floor and the elongated passenger seat. It trickled onto the road, collecting in a pool the shape of a teardrop. The roof of the car looked as if it were smashed in by a California redwood sized fist. On the side that stood to the sky was another huge dent. The door was caved in, the border scissored along the edges. Somewhere near the wreck, a bloodied and bruised hooded young, and messy red-haired male lay forgotten outside of the car, his left leg twisted at the knee. He was surrounded by shards of glass. Glass covered his body and face, some of it tainted red. His red hair was matted with blood. His hoodie was tattered and ripped to large shreds on his body, its white color painted over with red. He looked to be in his late teens. Remains of a cell phone collected in his blood-covered outstretched palm. Up ahead of the scene of the car wreck and the badly wounded young male, a tense struggle was ongoing at the base of the hill.

Monsters surrounded a twenty-something looking young male of Hispanic descent and the badly wounded, unconscious black-haired teenage Caucasian white male draped over his shoulders. The fighter wore a tattered thermal turtleneck sweater, a ripped murky brown puffy jacket with a hood halfway torn off, a wool scarf, and dark tight fitting jeans ripped almost entirely at the left knee to show a horrific leg wound. His shoes before being tainted with blood and snow were premium style waterproof wool boots. He fought off the horde of monsters with a bloody arm, swiping in every direction with a Greek bronze sword. The handle was soaked in blood, but the monsters only vaporized into tiny flakes of golden dust. Flakes splashed in the fighter's mouth. His forehead was marred in deep cuts and bruises. Cheeks of light brown were painted with dried blood. Yet, fresh blood rained down from a four-inch wide cut on his forehead, just a few centimeters from curly dark brown hair that was matted with blood. Elfish ears escaped from low hung hair. One ear was completely covered in blood, the sticky red substance snaking down his neck to make for an ugly dried scar. His other ear was bandaged already from an earlier squabble. He looked like a Hispanic George Weasley with both ears wounded.

Despite his appearance, the fighter resisted the monsters, his body ever so slightly drifting up the hill. With his free arm, he clutched tightly to the body of the unconscious male, who the monsters seemed eager to finish off. He grunted and thrust the sword with all the strength he had left, which wasn't much. Snow caked over the hill like a frosted cupcake, with a large white pine tree empty of snow dotting the top of the hill like a Christmas decoration. It wouldn't be much longer until he gave into exhaustion. His willpower was strong, but it was fading by the minute. His weary eyes dared to look for half a second up ahead on the hill. Everything was white from the snow, making it all the more welcome. His destination. A land of promise and respite for a weary soul like his.

On top of the hill, a large dragon the size of a school bus was asleep curled around the tree directly on the hill. Further up behind a small row of trees campers slept on, unperturbed by the ongoing fight. Only as the fighter grew slower did any rebellious campers notice anything. Three younger guys, each maybe fifteen to sixteen years old, wearing only orange T-shirts, baggy blue jeans, and carrying fireworks, candles, and lighters in their small muscled arms were making their way towards a large worn-looking farmhouse for mischief when one of them heard the struggle on the hill. His elfish ears perked at the sound of a struggle.

Ignoring his friends' protests, the teenager ran to the source of the noise to investigate. His moppy brown hair blew in the run. When in viewing distance of the fight, the boy dropped everything in his arms onto the ground and whipped out a much smaller bronze sword than the one the fighter wielded. The younger male raced down the hill with his sword extended, eager to lend a helping arm to a person he didn't know. His sudden departure triggered his reluctant friends to run and assist him, though it would be regrettable. The rest of the camp hadn't woken yet, the time still being short of two a.m. When one of the teenagers ran back into the camp to get help for his two friends who ran down the hill, he knocked incessantly on a cabin painted entirely in gold. The gold was visible through the dark of the night, but only just. A sleepy blonde teenage male answered the door. He was only wearing a loosely-fitting striped T-shirt and baggy yellow sweatpants, but the other teenager grabbed him by his arm and demanded in a loud whisper his help. He groaned in response but followed, quietly closing the door to his cabin. With one swift movement, the awakening male grabbed a quiver and a small rectangular box of medical supplies. The two raced to the fighter's side somewhere halfway between the bottom and top of the hill. In the distance, angry Harpies screeched at the sight of demigods being out way past curfew.

To the horror of the two, the eager fighter from before was almost lifeless in a large pool of blood in the snow. His chest and abdomen were being ripped open by truck sized dogs. His friend who followed him originally jumped on the dogs, swiping in every direction with his sword until only one dog remained. With a split move, the archer took down the offending dog, before granting medical attention to the wounded fading fighter. The monsters were only increasing in quantity. The two swordsmen continued the fight, taking down giants and monsters that surrounded and chased the fighter. One of the swordsmen grabbed the passed out teenager from the fighter's shoulders and carried him all the way up the hill until he purposefully bumped the sleeping dragon with his heel before escaping to the camp's safety. The dragon woke, instantly catching the scent of the fight. It raced down the hill, chomping down and flinging monsters with its massive jaw in the process.

Meanwhile, the remaining swordsman assisted the weary and badly wounded fighter up the hill until he couldn't take it anymore. The fighter collapsed in the brave teenager's arms, forcing him to drag him into the camp and deliver him to the swordsman. The swordsman carried one body over his shoulders and held the other as he made his way towards the large farmhouse. The remaining swordsman raced back down the hill to rescue the medic. The white snow from before was checkered and dotted in offending blood. The medic remained to assist the wounded boy, but he was quickly attacked and ripped apart by the dogs before his assistance could arrive. His body was left in the snow encampment. The last remaining swordsman fought vigilantly against the monsters but stood no chance without any help. He too was shredded by the hellhounds. The dragon charged down the hill to kill the remaining monsters, though not arriving in time to protect the swordsman or medic. With slowness in its charge, it latched onto the fallen demigods one by one and carried them up to the tree for the campers to find in the morning. The swordsman from before was already gone when the dragon returned to his resting place beside the pine tree protecting the camp.

When the camp did awake for the day, the snow around half-blood hill and circling around the tree that used to be Thalia Grace was almost two inches deep. Large pools of blood and several small dots turned the snowy landscape into a peppermint candy. Two lifeless bodies lay in the snow, a reminder of the night's horror. It would be two heavily armored teens, one boy, and one girl respectively, who discovered the bodies. The dragon was asleep, deepening the mystery of what happened. The camp quickly learned of the bodies, as rumors swirled fast in a camp full of over two hundred and fifty teenagers. It dampened the mood of many, knowing who the bodies belonged to. A funeral would be held that night around a large fire as was the tradition for fallen campers Two burial shrouds, one dusty brown with two snakes curled around it, and the other golden held the bodies.

The camp director, Chiron, and his godly counterpart knew it was only the beginning. The camp hadn't seen an attack on the hill dubbed half-blood hill in over a decade. Chiron knew the campers were there to protect someone, but as he filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle he grew more worried. He hated to have to make the call but he feared he had no other choice. Winter had come with a vengeance. A hero had returned, but at what cost?


	2. Views From The Infirmary

The day following the deaths and subsequent burials of two brave demigods was a tough one for campers. Not only had they buried two friends, and to some their brothers, but the camp's snow seemed to be permanent, three demigods lay in serious condition in the infirmary, and most importantly one of the demigods was a former hero who hadn't been seen or heard from in weeks prior to his sudden arrival in injurious form. 

In the camp's infirmary, over twenty wounded campers lay in comfortable white hospital beds recovering when Chiron, the half-man, half horse camp director and his companions, a youngish looking guy in a white doctor's coat that read 'Dr. Fred' and a mildly bruised younger blonde teenager in biker's shorts and a red hoodie that read 'Goode High Cross Country' walked in. The younger guy was wearing sandals, striking a stark contrast to the December climate. He had a black sports backpack over his shoulders, a mild case of facial hear growing, a serious lack of teenage acne, white rim glasses, and short curly blonde hair curving over a small spot in the back of his head. He looked like a typical male high schooler, definitely a jock-type, with an athletic figure like a runner's.

Arriving all together to stand over the sleeping form of a badly wounded black-haired, green-eyed, heavily bearded, and shirtless young man, the three companions simultaneously released collective sighs of anguish. The young man's shirtless sculpted physique was marred with great lacerations, dark bruises, red welts and white welts, and white bandages. There were multiple bandages on the same wounds, seemingly because of blood loss. One of his arms was entirely encased in white wrapping. His throat saw signs of damage consistent with struggling against asphyxiation, with streaks of red marks masking his neck. His left eye was prematurely shut with bruising, his broken nose was shielded by a white wrapping, and his whole right side of his face was marred by scars, bruises, and what appeared to be claw marks. For some reason, his scars on his face weren't wrapped completely. One of his legs was raised up in a white cast over an incline, the other's knee wrapped as well as his ankle. His foot was encased in a gold cast. His right arm was raised vertically in a cast, which was marked by a handful of scribbled signatures. The scars on his face were visible until his forehead, where a tight starkly white bandage was wrapped from his forehead to the back of his skull, dropping down just half an inch. He was practically cocooned in a body cast. This demigod had been in quite a fight. He didn't look like he'd be responsive anytime soon. It didn't help that his shell of a body was as stock still as a statue. 

The first visitor to speak was the older male in a doctor's coat. He looked to be in his early thirties, maybe thirty-one or two, with a shiny layer of not-yet-balded blonde hair. Releasing a deep sigh, he spoke in a tone not very promising: “I haven't seen any improvements in his condition since I checked it earlier this morning. As far as my tests and my expertise can tell, he's the same he was when he arrived. The good news is he hasn't got any worse”. He smiled faintly. Almost on instinct, the doctor looked at the younger blonde, seeking approval of some kind. The younger man sighed heavily, clearly in discomfort. “Look, I got here an hour ago. I would've come sooner but I was tied up”, he said. The centaur and doctor looked expectantly at him. A deep breath. “He's got a serious head injury, and obviously a lot of brain damage but....”, he trailed off, looking over his shoulder at the unconscious form next to the black-haired patient. In front of the unconscious stranger's bed was a sign held up by a gold stand, that read 'Unclaimed' in white block letters. 

Confused, he turned to his apparent supervisors. “Who's he?”, the student asked, pointing at the form with his index finger. The doctor and centaur stared at each other before looking back at the younger male. The centaur spoke first, a little hesitantly. “We don't know for sure, but the campers who rescued him last night said he arrived with Percy. He protected him from most of the monsters, as you can probably see. A strong one, for sure”. The younger male blinked. He looked back at the unknown male. He was Mexican, maybe. Most of his face was covered in bandages, and his head was wrapped in a tight bandage similar to the other camper's, so it was hard to make out what he'd look like when he wasn't Pillsbury Doughboy's long lost lumpier cousin. His supposed injuries were barely visible, but peeping out of white bandaging were deep lacerations, claw marks, bruises, and what looked like burn marks. If Percy and this demigod looked so horrible, what in Hades happened to them?

The doctor shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the door of the ward before setting back to look at the student and the centaur. He took a deep breath, quickly catching the attention of his two companions. “He's my son, Chiron, and his name is Miguel”. With that, the doctor's eyes shifted to the younger blonde's. The student rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. “Of course he is,” he mumbled under his breath. The doctor's eyebrows furrowed. His face morphed into a frown just as the student made his way to Miguel's bed to treat him. With all eyes on Miguel, the jet black-haired Percy's eyes fluttered. Only he could see out of just one eye.

In the distance, behind the three companions, lay an almost mummified camper, with only a twinge of red hair visible from his head wrap. The only quantifiable thing about him was that his left hand clutched tightly to a weapon that Chiron himself nearly snatched upon view of it. After being disappointed by the red-haired stranger's grip on it, he hid its view from campers by using the Mist, so as not to have it stolen.


	3. Percy I (Flashback)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a longer chapter than the ones before. Bear with me.

It all started when a jet black messy haired teenager dressed like an Eskimo had his wallet stolen. The teenager, who occasionally goes by the name of Percy Jackson, was walking very, very slowly along a dark alley in the middle of a freezing December night. He was wearing sneakers, but the blanket of snow on the ground covered most of them. The night was unusually cold, even for New York. Percy internally cursed the god of the sun, Apollo, for not doing his job. He didn't get a response, of course. Percy took note of his surroundings as he searched for his friend Scott's apartment. The alleyway was lighted only by a pair of Roman candles attached to a rich person's apartment halfway through the alley. Just as Percy made the motion to turn to his right, he was knocked into the snow by a swift blow to his head. 

A groggy Percy woke up on a pile of snow to see a blurry figure standing above him. He blinked several times, finally coming to full consciousness, only to see the figure had vanished. Checking that he had everything, and sighing when realizing that he had his wallet stolen, Percy debated on getting up. Maybe it was hypothermia, or just him being done with the world for the night, but Percy took his time hoisting himself up. His shoes kicked up snow as he brought himself to a standing position. Completely guessing on which direction the thief went with his wallet, a very cold Percy ran north, racing through stalled traffic, jumping over taxi cabs, and stepping on rich Escalade SUVs until he arrived at another alley. He couldn't believe it when he saw what appeared to be the same figure waiting for him in the middle of the narrow ass alley. Percy grinned, eager for a smackdown. His earlier apathy for anything related to movement disappeared. 

It turned out that the chase that Percy had mapped out in his ADHD mind wasn't in the plan for the fates. He managed to catch up with the thief, but just as he tried grabbing the other guy, Percy was knocked to the ground again, this time by truck sized Hellhounds. Naturally, Percy thought as he struggled to grab his sword Riptide. He failed spectacularly to get any sort of protection as the monsters tried to rip his head off with their teeth. He regretfully uses his hands to protect himself, covering his face as he tries pushing the monsters away. One of the Hellhounds latches its mouth onto his arm, causing Percy to scream in pain. The other hellhound claws at his face. Blood streaks down from one side of his face. The other beast bites down hard on his arm, tearing away the clothing fibers of his tan Northface parka and spilling blood. Blood flows down his arm as the same Hellhound slashes Percy's face to join in on the fun before returning to his chest. Percy is pinned to the snow covered ground by the beast, howling in pain at the attack on his arm and face. He's crying out of pure pain, bopping his head away from the monsters, desperately trying to bury his head in the cherry colored snow. Blood flows from what feels like a million different places. He's losing consciousness from the loss of blood, growing number with the second, third, and fourth slashes of his chest and abdomen. 

Percy doesn't quite remember what happened, but for some reason, he didn't die. The Hellhound on his chest vaporizes in a cloud of golden dust, the other two beasts suffering the same fate. Percy passes out before he can see what happened, thinking surely he had died. He doesn't see his uncle, which is strangely unnerving. When he wakes up, he's in the same place, but the thief from before is now accompanied by another unknown guy. A medium height Hispanic guy with a scruffy beard and thick brown hair is tending to his wounds, pouring amber fluid Percy thinks might be whiskey over his damaged chest, and wrapping a whole roll of gauze around his left arm. The instant the amber liquid hits Percy's chest, a heavenly feeling overtakes him. He hallucinates that he's 12 years old again, drinking nectar for the first time. The distant memory of nectar tasting like soggy chocolate chip cookies lasts for about a minute before it's interrupted by a burning sensation on his face. Percy flinches back when an ice cold cloth is draped over his face, where the Hellhounds swiped. 

"Whaa", he starts before getting dizzy again. He can faintly hear two unfamiliar voices speak in a language that is not Latin, Ancient Greek, modern Greek, or English. He knows it's not Spanish because he's been yelled at by plenty of Hispanic demigods and mortals over the course of his life. A little more brainpower. Little more. That's it. It's French, specifically, the two dudes are talking to each other in Canadian French. Like Frank Zhang, only Frank's not there. He doesn't have Piper with him, obviously, so he has not a clue what they're saying. The voices slow down before the same medic from before comes into view again. The Hispanic guy is wearing a black and white paramedic jacket with a name Percy can't make out glued onto it on a silver nameplate. "I hope you don't mind, but I dumped some..nectar, I think it's called that, from a bottle, you had on your cuts", the paramedic said in a thick accent Percy can't make out yet. He doesn't pause for Percy's response before wrapping more gauze over his chest. 

"You used my nectar?", Percy asked dumbly. The paramedic of no name looked at Percy strangely, as if he thought he was some sort of alien that crash landed in Queens. Percy feels much better than before, but he can barely make out his next words. "Are you a demigod?", he asked hesitantly. Now he's internally slapping himself. Of course, this guy isn't a demigod. He looks like he's 25. Before either one of them can say anything, the thief from earlier, a tall red-haired guy with a somewhat off-kilter jaw throws his wallet on his forehead, away from his cuts. "I'm Arthur, and we need to go before all three of us freeze to death", is all the thief says in a distinct English accent before turning his back to walk away, to where Percy isn't sure. That's one Hades of an introduction, he thinks before passing out again. He can faintly hear a groan as he fades into unconsciousness. 

There's a faint sound of fire embers crackling in the distance when Percy comes to consciousness for the third time that night. At least he assumes it's night. His stomach rumbles like a truck engine giving one last start before death at the aroma of food. Great food. Mexican food, to be exact. He briefly thinks he's back at Camp Half-Blood with his friends Connor and Travis eating extremely spicy rice off of Leo Valdez's plate moments before being slapped by said friend. Oh, how he wished he could see his friends now. Any of his friends would be good. He'd never admit this, but he'd trade what's left of his soul to see Clarisse La Rue's face again, sneering down at him after kicking him into the dust near the volleyball courts at camp. 

He's pulled from his nostalgia when somebody brings him a styrofoam plate of steaming green and yellow rice, three large fried meat pockets he thinks are chimichangas, and one whole lemon that's slightly burnt. He's so hungry he doesn't stop to think about a lemon being cooked whole. He reaches out to grab one of the fried heaven looking meat pockets but it's so hot he yanks his hand away. 

He's sitting on a lumpy plastic wrapped lemon colored sofa that he thinks might be the same colors as those showed on What Not To Do With Yellow postcards the Aphrodite cabin handed out a few years back during their 'Fashion Awareness Week'. Some Drew Tanaka bullshit. Well, Drew, he remembers now. In front of him is a wooden dinner stand like the ones you have when you're six and it's cool to eat in front of a TV. The walls are paper white, but that hardly matters as in every available space there's a picture frame featuring Jesus Christ's judging face. He's facing towards the dining room/kitchen, where surely hundreds of Roman candles line up in domino format on the small yellow rounded, somewhat lopsided table. Even the China cabinet has small statues of Jesus standing proudly upon it. There's Spanish music playing somewhere, but Percy doesn't care because he's hungry. The face from before tries speaking to him, but he's so hungry he doesn't hear at first. An English accent. 

Percy forgets about his food the second he sees the red-haired Arthur from England probably roll on a wheeled stool in front of him. Like he's some sort of mortal doctor, Arthur speaks again. "Percy," he says loudly. Yes. "Yea..my name", Percy says stupidly. Who the Hades introduces himself as that? Arthur isn't amused it seems because he shakes his head and tries again. Percy's hungry again. Surely the food isn't steaming anymore. "You asked Miguel if he was a demigod", the English ginger man states. Great, Percy thought. This conversation. "Umm, yeah", he starts. Unamused green eyes stare back at him. They kind of look like emeralds. Weren't his eyes emerald color? Or were they like the sea? These things bothered him a ton.

Apparently, he said some of this out loud because the Englishman laughs in a sound Percy could get addicted to hearing. Laugh again, Arthur. Arthur's eyes crinkle, his hand slapping his thigh. He's wearing tight blue jeans and a white hoodie he thinks might be Abercrombie. "I asked about what you said, but I guess my eye color is fine". Percy can feel his face heat. He tries to turn his head, but a sharp pain comes in full force. He doesn't care to picture his face after being used as scratch mats for hellhounds. "Okay, so, like, um, I'm kind of not, ya know, uh, normal, like uh, you", Percy stammers completely embarrassed of his actions. He's unable to speak around this guy. 

"Clearly", the accented voice that he figures belongs to Miguel as mentioned before says, his face coming into view again. Miguel is frowning down at the untouched plate of food. He grabs it, but Percy makes a noise of protest. Luckily Miguel looks back at him. "You want it?", he asks in a confused tone. Of course, he wants it! "I haven't eaten in like two days, man, I want the food". A perfect sentence. No stammering. Nothin'. Miguel sets the plate down and sets to leave. 

Before he can, Arthur calls him back, this time in English. "I asked him about the demigod thing, and he told me my eyes were green. I'm getting nada mate". Miguel snorts. "Alright, dude, Percy, I don't know what attacked you, but they looked like truck sized Great Danes so please tell me they won't come again 'cause I can't steal any more supplies". Percy shakes his head. "They will. I'm a demigod, like a strong one". Arthur snorts. Percy glares. Miguel laughs. "Yeah but what's a demigod bro?", Miguel asked again in a laidback Mexican tongue. "Well, we're kind of like the kids of Greek gods, like Apollo and stuff", he answered in a matter of fact tone. Why'd he say Apollo and not Poseidon?

Arthur frowns. Miguel tilts his head like he thinks Percy's crazy or something. This is going to be a long night. He means to say he's not crazy, but instead, he asks Miguel if he can have his food. But it's in front of him. He's very tired. 

"I mean, I'm gonna eat now cause I'm starving". Arthur stares at Percy like he's some kind of animal. Is it bad to be hungry after not eating anything, not even a banana for two full days? "Fine", Miguel says, his mouth setting into a firm line. 

Percy takes a monster sized bite out of the chimichanga from before. Except it's cold now. He swallows before trying to speak because he learned one thing from his mother in eighteen years alive. "There's a camp in Long Island that I used to go to a lot. I would like to go there, like after I'm done eating, though". Percy hoped he didn't sound too rude. 

Arthur and Miguel stare at each other. Some sort of telepathic bro communication takes place before both guys nod their heads. Miguel's head is the first to turn to Percy. "Fine, we'll go, if you prove you're not insane". Oh, my gods. "Fine", Percy says. He scans his surroundings looking for any evidence of water. Aha! A glass of water right in front of him. 

One Minnesota, two Minnesota. The tall glass shatters in hundreds of pieces, the previously lukewarm liquid h20 freezing into a jagged block. That seems to do the trick because almost instantly Arthur and Miguel walk away to grab their coats from a jacket rack next to the China cabinet. It seems to be unspoken that Percy will follow them, leaving his food behind. Except he won't. He stuffs the two untouched cold chimichangas into his jacket pockets and turns to leave, almost falling to the floor in the process.

"I'm fine!", he shouts. But his two companions are already heading out the door through the kitchen. He hears a door shut and scrambles to run. He can barely run because he feels like he got hit by a train. Could this day get any worse? He pushes the rolly chair from before to the ground in his race outside with his good arm. When he finally runs out the door and slams it behind him, Arthur is waiting for him outside of an old banana colored 1970-something Chevy Nova. Tick three for fashion offenses, as Drew would say in her Valley girl voice. In his burgundy leather jacket from when he tried taking off with a wallet that wasn't his, Arthur jokes, "you're kind of slow for an all-powerful half mortal, Jackson". Oh no. No more Jacksons. "It's Percy". Arthur rolls his eyes before opening the passenger car door just to throw Percy in the seat and slam the door. Percy makes a noise of protest, but the thief doesn't seem to care. 

Before Percy knows it Arthur is already buckled in the back of the hideous ancient sports car and yelling for Percy to use "common sense road safety" and buckle as Miguel slams his foot on the accelerator, almost wrecking into a parked food delivery truck in the process. "Oh, by the way", Miguel shouts without looking back at Percy. They're speeding on a frozen street alongside dark apartments like maniacs and Percy faintly remembers his ride years ago in the chariot of damnation. "What's the address for this camp of yours?". Percy's head slams the back of his cushioned head rest before he can answer. "Near Montauk Point". Miguel nearly wrecks again when he whips his head around to face Percy. "You're joking!". Arthur laughs from the back as Miguel continues his assault on speed limits. Percy is very tired. It must be like 1 in the morning at that point. "I never joke", he lies. His whole life is a joke. 

He must have been asleep because when he opens his tired, tired eyes the awful looking Camaro is parked in the grass at Half-Blood hill's entrance point. Except Miguel knocked down the hundred-year-old sign that read 'Delphi Strawberry Service'. The gods will be very mad, surely. Miguel sheepishly looks at Percy from his driver's seat. “You said it was a strawberry farm. I kind of hit the sign”. Miguel is his best friend now. Arthur chimes in. “You mean you didn't see the sign because you can't read like an idiot”. Whoa, whoa. Percy turns his head sharply to look at Miguel. Miguel, who's currently glaring daggers at Arthur. “You're dyslexic?!”, Percy exclaims. Miguel turns to Percy. “Is that a problem?”. “No”. “Good”. Miguel is a demigod like him. It all makes sense. If he can't read English, surely he's a demigod. 

Suddenly a thought pops up in his mind. Percy spins his head around to look at Arthur. “Can you read the sign?”. All he gets in response is a kick to his seat and a yell of protest from Miguel. He waits. No words. Okay then. Miguel seems to have a heart because he answers for his friend. “No”. Arthur kicks Miguel's seat. By the look on Miguel's face, Percy knows shit is about to go down.

Punch to Arthur's knee. “Ow!”. Another punch. “Mate!”. A third punch til Percy intervenes because the car is now being surrounded by an angry horde of Hellhounds, cyclopes, Laistrygonian giants, and one nasty Lydian drakon. Honestly, Percy would prefer the Minotaur over that drakon anytime, anywhere. “Um guys, do you see this”, Percy asks tentatively thumbing towards the horde of monsters on the tinted passenger window. Monsters probably don't care if the windows are tinted, however. Not even a second later Miguel yelps and jumps from his seat at the sign, hitting his head on his car roof. “Fuck!”. Arthur's already pale freckled face has whitened by twenty shades, his body shaking at the sight. Percy can't even count before the car is lifted by a dozen giants and hurled sixty feet into the air, directly smashing into a tree with a thump. 

Ow. Percy's forehead is bleeding, dripping liquid red drops on his patched up hoodie. His coat is unzipped, but his bandages on his chest cause a bump under his tight fitting orange Camp Half-Blood hoodie. He feels brand new bruises begin to form on his chest from the wreck. His ears are ringing, but he can't think about that. Miguel grabs a hold of his hoodie's collar, pulling his body with surprising strength in a diagonal direction to him, before kicking his way out of the windshield. Arthur is already awake, but his nose is broken and his head is also bleeding. Miguel's foot is almost all the way out of the broken windshield before he's dragged across the grass by a giant and punched in the face. He's still clutching a hold of Percy, though, with dear life. Percy thinks for a moment about Arthur, but then a cyclops rams its head into Percy's and whacks his head again with a rock before he can even register the first hit. He crumples like paper to the snow covered ground.


	4. Miguel I (Flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel's version of events during the battle. The next chapter will be in the current timeframe.

Holy shit! Holy shit! 

Miguel watches with a mix of amazement and horror as the guy he only met hours ago drops to the ground with a sickening blow to the head by a rock the size of a human head. Almost on instinct Miguel launches a kick to the giant and sends it spiraling to the ground somewhere in the distance. 

Miguel has no idea what's going on, but internally he's cursing at the world in his grandmother's angry Mexican Spanish. Miguel clutches tightly to Percy's chest, holding him to his shoulder. He doesn't know why he cares so much about the random guy, but he feels like he has to protect him. It's weird. He doesn't know where Arthur is but prays he's alive. His beautiful 79' Nova his grandfather gave him when he died is destroyed. With his eyes on his damaged car, or what's left of it really, his heart falls when he sees a one-eyed very tall and muscular humanoid smash its giant fists on the roof. The roof crumples like a tin can.

Hearing a hissing noise, Miguel's eyes snap back to in front of him and open wide in terror as a snake looking creature at least two hundred feet long with scales as long as school buses and a head straight out of a horror movie lurches with amazing speed directly at him and Percy. Miguel can't even breathe before the serpentine creature lurches its head so close to Miguel that he can see the eyes.

Miguel doesn't move after that, his whole body just coming to a complete halt. His eyes look on in absolute terror as the monster serpent spits fire at him, the heat of it breaking him out of his stupor just in time for him to clutch onto Percy and from the fire run like he's Speedy Gonzalez through the trees. 

For a brief second he feels an acidic substance burn the skin on the back of his neck, but for a strange reason, he can't find at the moment it doesn't bother him like it should. He's racing through a heavy snowy clearing with Percy on his back, the blood from his forehead spilling onto Miguel's head and coating his hair. It's terribly gross. But he's a paramedic so he's oddly used to that kind of stuff. The rest, not so much. 

He doesn't know what happens next because a tattooed giant at least seven feet tall is lifting him off the ground like  he's  a hot and spicy Mexican bag of  rice and hurdling him like a spiraling football into a tree.  When they crash into the tree, Miguel feels like he's been hit by a train. He's fairly certain he's broken several bones in his back, and a few ribs too. He suffers whiplash for a moment before being surrounded by more giants, tattooed and one-eyed both. 

The dragon-snake thingy is coming into view and Miguel feels sick.  Percy isn't awake yet, but he's almost attached to Miguel's body after being held so tight. There's no sig n of Arthur. Miguel is sure he's dead.  He wishes he were too at that moment. Every bone in his body feels like it's on fire and he can't even see straight without feeling like he's stepped off a 100mph carousel. 

He crumpels to the ground, having just enough energy left to reach over his shoulder and snatch a pen out of Percy's pocket.  He doesn't know how he knew to reach for a pen.  The pen extends into a cool bronze sword, but Miguel doesn't care about that. 

He wields it with his left hand like some sort of Ancient Greek soldier.  He's never wielded a sword like Percy's before, but he fought Arthur with a Samuari sword once for the hell of it.  Two unlucky truck sized giants attack, each meeting a dusty fate with two swipes of the sword.  Awesome!  There's not much energy left in Miguel, but just enough to stab the monstrous serpent in one of its terrifying eyes when it lurches its head at him. The serpent explodes in a cloud of yellow dust. Miguel coughs.  He has absolutely know idea what he's doing or how he's doing it. Some sort of force has taken him hostage. He stabs every giant in his view, feeling very good about himself afterward. 

Seeing no more monsters, only dark sky and trees, Miguel sighs in relief. He slowly moves his head to the left of him, where he can faintly see what looks like a big farmhouse. Not a moment later Miguel is slammed to the ground by  yet  another one-eyed giant.  Miguel  now  feels like he's been hit repeatedly by a train.  He tries to lift his head up, but it feels like a million arrows have inserted themselves in it. 

After ages, he slowly and painfully hoists his head and chest up to look at his surroundings. His mouth is bleeding and three teeth have landed on his chest. He wants to throw up. Blood is pooling around in his mouth as he handles the sword. The sword is all but glued to his hand when he stabs half-heartedly into the giant's overweight stomach from his position on the ground.  Another one bites the dust, Miguel thinks cockily as the ugly dude thingy vaporizes into dust. 

Ten points for Miguel. 

Miguel's shoulders are starting to pain from carrying a 6' something  dude on his back . He wishes he could just drop him at this point. 

Wham! He almost loses complete consciousness when another tattooed giant whacks his face with an iron spiked mace. “Ah!”, he cries out as blood spills from his mouth to his face and neck. His vision is nearly gone. He isn't even off the ground before the giant snatches Percy from his grip and pummels his bloodied head with the mace, squirting blood into the snow. Miguel gasps as he desperately tries to reach for the sword to protect Percy. 

The giant has his mace lifted over his meaty shoulder to deliver a fatal blow to Percy when out of nowhere a strike of lightning vaporizes the giant on spot. What in the hell? He looks up to the sky from the ground before struggling to get himself up. He isn't even running when he picks Percy up for another round of let's-run-for-our-lives. He's just hobbling on his knees in a state of partial consciousness. He cries on the inside thinking his friend is dead after the giant's blow. 

Percy's face is soaked with blood. He can't think about that right now, though. He has to keep moving if he wants to save both of them. Although at the moment he cares more about Percy's survival than his. In all the hours he's known the guy he's just been kicked around and hurt everywhere. 

F or once in his 25 years of existence, he's fortunate that his grandmother forced him into sports.  He'd never tell that to her face, of course.  He wishe d she could see him now, kicking monster ass like a boss.  She'd whack his sorry  Mexican  self back into sanity with her centuries old cane if he told her what was happening in his life at the moment.  She'd tell him to suck it and deal with it like “un hombre”. About that. 

_Use your gifts, mijo,_ she would say whenever something troubling would block his path to success. Whatever those gifts are, they'd come in awfully handy right about now, he thought bitterly.  He played football during high school, and on some occasions his awful coach would force him, just him, to run up the bleachers with dummies strapped to his back. 

He hated his coach for that, but thank god he did that because that's what was keeping him alive. Except now Percy was the dummy and the bleachers in his memory was actually a snow-covered hill as steep as a mountain in Miguel's fine opinion. 

Miguel saw figures from behind him a few feet away. Giants. And dogs. Miguel didn't have the strength to deal with any more giants or demon dogs. He was half-crawling up the hill with Percy on his shoulder like a zombie from a super realistic movie. Voices from earlier were becoming clearer. He faintly saw through his blurry vision figures from the hill. He thought he saw the outline of a dragon in front of a tree on the hill. His vision was turning black quickly. 

He didn't have much longer before he would collapse. Percy was still unconscious on his shoulder. His whole face looked blue and black from Miguel's perspective. The voices were coming closer just as the dogs and giants were racing towards him. Miguel's legs felt like lead as he tried to make his way up the hill. He could almost see heads of normal humans come closer to him from atop the hill. It didn't appear as his 'gifts' were going to come. 

The dogs were there before the giants. Just as a pack of demon dogs neared closer, a crazy figure with a sword like Percy's raced to his side and attacked the devilish beasts. Oh, god yes. Finally, help.  Another fighter came to his side just as the giants came into direct view. Miguel didn't blink before one giant clubbed the second fighter in the head. 

Surprisingly, the fighter didn't budge but instead stabbed the giant in the head and turned on his heel before the dust even fell to the ground. Miguel wanted to cry out when the first fighter was taken down by two dogs. Miguel tried defending his defense but all he could do was swing at the air. He had nothing left to give. Dogs were tearing into the fighter as he just watched on in horror, the ability to fight gone. The second fighter took down the dogs with rabid stabs of his sword. 

Miguel crept up the hill, but he was forced to drop Percy to the ground. It wasn't a conscious decision. He truly tried to carry Percy the rest of the way but his body gave out. Instead, he watched as another figure carrying what looked like a bow and arrow on his shoulders raced to the fallen fighter to administer medical aid. Like what he did for Percy not even twelve hours earlier. 

Miguel couldn't fully make out the archer. It was dark out but he also could barely see anything regardless. The other fighters continued taking down giants and dogs. There can't be that many dogs. C'mon. Miguel blinked when one of the fighters grabbed a hold of Percy. 

He didn't spare a glance at Miguel before he lifted his shoulders to drag Percy up the hill. His friend defended him as he raced towards the safety of the camp Percy told Miguel about.

He once again wanted to cry out when the second fighter was ripped apart by one last dog. He tried to reach out for the sword again but then the dog was racing at him at super speed and he lost the thought. 

Miguel tried blinking again but he couldn't as he felt the dog ram into his back and knock him into the snow. The cold of the white substance did nothing to rejuvenate his senses. He was done. 

He felt claw marks shred into his back for half a second. He wasn't dead. Somehow. The dog must've been killed because he couldn't feel it anymore. Miguel didn't know where the extra strength came from, but he barely managed to lift himself up before collapsing into a stranger's awaiting arms. Seconds later he passed out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S, I might revise this story to have it make more sense.


End file.
